


Together, Forever, That's How It Must Be

by kait1987



Category: Glee
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:38:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kait1987/pseuds/kait1987
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your friendship of eleven years lies in ruins on the floor in front of her locker and neither of you know how to begin putting it back together again. A history of Quinn and Santana.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Together, Forever, That's How It Must Be

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this forever ago. As in I wrote it over the first hiatus of season 1, so it’s mostly non-canon now. I like it that way, though, because it’s my head canon that Quinn and Santana grew up together despite what the show says. Such wasted potential.

For as long as you can remember, Quinn has always been by your side. She was, as a matter of fact, the first person you met when you moved into the house across the street from hers the year you both turned five. You were shy and quiet and hid behind your mother’s legs. She was friendly and bubbly, a lot for you to take in. She grabbed your hand and coaxed you out from your hiding place before dragging you off to explore your backyard.  
  
“We’re looking for fairies,” she whispered to you.  
  
You rolled your eyes and said, “I don’t believe in fairies.”  
  
“That’s why you can’t see them. If you want to see them, you have to believe.” She pulled you towards a tree stump and pointed emphatically. “Don’t you see? They’re having a tea party!”  
  
You squinted hard, and for a brief and fleeting moment, you saw what Quinn saw. “I see them! They’re having pink cupcakes with their tea.”  
  
“I told you!” She exclaimed, in that moment believing in you as much as she believed in the fairies. She took both of your hands in hers and spun you around wildly in circles with her until you were both so dizzy you collapsed into a pile on the grass. Quinn lay there beside you long enough for her world to stop spinning and then flitted off in search of a frog to kiss. You looked at her like she was crazy, this little ray of sunshine in a yellow dress, but from that moment on she was your best friend. And like any good best friend she was at all your birthday parties, sitting beside you and helping you blow out the candles.  
  
“Make a wish,” she said.  
  
“Why? They never come true.”  
  
“That’s because you’re not wishing hard enough,” she explained. Quinn had an explanation for everything.  
  
“You make a wish for me,” you said. It was easier than asking her to explain how to wish harder. Besides, you knew she’d always had more luck with magic than you.  
  
“Okay,” she squeezed her eyes shut tightly and drew in a deep breath, helping you extinguish the six candles on your cake.  
  
“What did you wish for?” You asked as your mom plopped a piece of cake down on the plate in front of you.  
  
“I can’t tell you that.” She scraped the sickly sweet purple icing off the top of her piece of cake and ate it first, just like she always had. “If I tell you then it might not come true and that would be terrible.”  
  
“But Quinn,” you reasoned with her. “It was technically my wish, so you’re allowed to tell me.”  
  
She sat quietly for a moment, pondering the rules of wish making, before smiling widely at you. “You’re right!” She leaned over, tucking your long, dark curls behind your ear and whispering, “I wished that we’d be best friends forever.”  
  
Now, it’s ten years down the road and you haven’t spoken to her in months. You know it’s ridiculous but you can’t help but wonder if your six year old self, what with your lies about the laws of wish making, had doomed your friendship that very day amidst the presents and the ice cream. You should have listened to Quinn. She was usually right.  
  
She was right on your first day of kindergarten at a new school you were entering half-way through the school year when she sat next to you on the bus and told you not to be afraid, that she would stay with you the whole day.  
  
“You’re in Ms. Lincoln’s class, too,” she told you, gripping your hand tightly in an attempt to comfort you. “There’s an empty desk next to mine and I’m sure Ms. Lincoln will let you sit there.”  
  
“What if nobody likes me?”  
  
Quinn shrugged. “Everyone likes me, so they’ll have to like you too.”  
  
“Everyone likes you?” You asked in disbelief. You didn’t know anyone who was liked by everyone. You certainly didn’t like everyone.  
  
“Yes,” she nodded confidently and flashed you a grin, displaying the gap where her front tooth was missing, “Everyone likes me. And if they don’t like you, just give them the chocolate pudding from your lunch or let them color with your sparkly crayons during art. Then they’ll definitely like you.”  
  
Quinn was right about everything she’d said that morning. She held your hand all the way from the bus to Ms. Lincoln’s classroom and continued to stay by your side the entire day. It turned out that you never had to share your pudding with anyone because Quinn wasn’t exaggerating, everyone really did like her, which meant they liked you too. She was popular with the boys because she was always a willing participant when they played pirates on the playground, perfectly happy to play the captured princess while all the other little girls screamed and ran away. She got bonus points for never once uttering the word ‘cooties’. Her popularity with the girls stemmed from the fact that being friends with Quinn felt a lot like being friends with a princess. They all just hoped that a little bit of her magic would rub off on them.  
  
And that was how you’d both gotten through school, always together, never apart. At some point, though you weren’t exactly sure when, Quinn had stopped ruling through her charm and started ruling through terror. Sometimes you worried that the switch had been your fault, that you had somehow tarnished the sparkly person that she was. Had she given you too much of her magic, or did she just lose it somewhere along her way?

* * *

For as long as you can remember, Quinn has been the only person you ever let see you cry. Not the superficial tears that come with a skinned knee and are quickly dried with a band-aid and a kiss, but the type that come when your heart feels so much sorrow that you want to fold up within yourself and never come out again.  
  
“Quinn,” you hiccuped into the phone after crying for ten minutes straight. You were eleven and your dad had just left your mom.  
  
“I’m coming,” she said before you could utter another word. She showed up at your door five minutes later with her hair still damp from the shower, dressed in her pajamas and armed with a pint of cookie dough ice cream. You opened the door, ready to calmly tell her everything that had happened, but she dropped the ice cream on the porch and pulled you into her arms where you quickly dissolved again. Her hair smelled like watermelon as you cried into it, and to this day you can’t help but equate the smell with the deep ache you felt in your heart that day.  
  
You aren’t sure how long she held you while you cried, but you do know that when she showed up the sun was just setting and by the time you untangled yourself from her arms the moon was high.  
  
“My dad left,” you finally managed, wiping your nose with your sleeve and then dabbing at your cheeks, red and raw from your tears.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered back, her own eyes swimming with tears.  
  
“How could he just leave?”  
  
Quinn shrugged and pulled you into another hug, running her hand soothingly up and down the length of your back. She didn’t have an answer for you.  
  
“My mom said they don’t love each other any more. What if they stop loving me?” You asked the summer night’s air that hung heavily over Quinn’s shoulder.  
  
“They will never stop loving you, San,” she answered confidently.  
  
“How do you know?”  
  
“I just do,” she said, squeezing you extra tight. You believed her because she was Quinn and Quinn was usually right.  
  
“I know it’s stupid, but I just keep thinking about how now I don’t have anyone to take me to the father/daughter dance at Girl Scouts next weekend.”  
  
“That’s not stupid at all,” she quickly assured you. “And my dad will take both of us.”  
  
“That’s not fair to you.”  
  
“You’re my sister,” she said, taking your hand in her own and holding it close to her heart. “He’s your dad too.”  
  
A week later, when you showed up to the dance walking arm in arm with Mr. Fabray and all your friends asked you where your dad was, you lied and told them he was away on business because Quinn was the only person you ever let really see you cry.

* * *

 

For as long as you can remember, Quinn had been the only person you ever let take care of you. You are fiercely independent and, according to your mother, spent all of your early childhood declaring ‘I do it myself’,  
  
When you fell off the top of the cheerleading pyramid in ninth grade and landed on your ankle funny, you shooed everyone away as you attempted to right yourself.  
  
“Get up, Lopez!” Coach Sylvester barked into the megaphone.  
  
“She’s trying,” Quinn yelled back with much more attitude than she usually dared.  
  
“I don’t see any bones sticking out of your flesh which means you’re fine. Get up, now!”  
  
“Can you stand?” Quinn asked, kneeling beside you.  
  
“I guess there’s only one way to find out,” you said, taking her extended hand and allowing her to help pull you to a standing position. “Ouch,” you winced, transferring all of your weight onto your left leg.  
  
Quinn slipped your arm over her shoulder, helping to support your weight. “I think you may have broken it,” she said, glancing down at your ankle which had already swollen to twice its normal size and was starting to turn blue. “Coach Sylvester, I think Santana needs to go to the hospital.”  
  
“Toughen up, Lopez. It just needs a little ice.”  
  
“You’re wrong,” Quinn said, meeting Coach Sylvester’s eyes with a steely gaze. “My friend is hurt and if you don’t get her some help, I’ll report you to the principal for ignoring a potentially serious injury.”  
  
“You wouldn’t dare do something like that, freshman.” She said, staring Quinn down.  
  
Quinn stared right back at her without blinking, “You’re right, I am a freshman, which means you don’t know me very well. Are you willing to risk your position in this school on the assumption that I will act in a certain way?”  
  
For a brief second, Sue Sylvester’s mouth hung agape. “Fine,” she sneered. “Take her to the nurse’s office. Don’t bother coming back without a cast, Lopez.”  
  
By the time you reached the nurse’s office, your ankle was hurting so badly that you were starting to see spots and you were ever the more grateful that you had Quinn to support you.  
  
“Oh, sweetheart,” the nurse cooed as soon as she settled you onto a cot and looked at your ankle. “I’m going to need to call your mother right away.”  
  
“Don’t bother,” you said, closing your eyes in an attempt to still the waves of nausea that were threatening to drown you. “She’s at work. She won’t answer.”  
  
“Call my mom,” Quinn offered from beside you. “She can take her to the hospital.”  
  
“Alright,” the nurse said, “Thank you, Quinn. You can go back to your cheer practice now.”  
  
She tightened her grip on your hand, “I’m not leaving her.”  
  
“Fine,” the nurse sighed, obviously more concerned with the state of your broken ankle than she was with making sure Quinn didn’t miss 5th period. “I’ll be right back,” she promised, heading to her desk and picking up the phone.  
  
“I think I’m going to be sick,” you mumbled, the pain in your ankle and the dizziness in your head suddenly overcoming you.  
  
“Okay,” Quinn quickly grabbed the trashcan that was sitting on the floor beside the bed and placed it in your lap. “Shhhh, it’s alright,” she soothed, rubbing small circles on your back as you emptied the contents of your stomach into the can.  
  
“Sorry,” you apologized once you were done. You knew how much she hated vomit.  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied softly, dabbing at your forehead with a wet paper towel. “They’ll give you some medicine at the hospital and it’ll make you feel much better.”  
  
You nodded and laid your head in her lap, closing your eyes and praying you wouldn’t get sick again.  
  
Quinn stayed with you the entire time you were at the hospital, only leaving you once when the doctors told her she had to so they could take an X-Ray of your ankle. She sat beside you, her eyes locked on yours and your fingers intertwined, as the doctors set your broken bone. The pain was masked by the medication they injected into your IV, but the noise of crunching bone remained and you were certain you would have screamed had it not been for Quinn anchoring you.

* * *

For as long as you can remember, Quinn has always a part of your imagined grown-up future (and you a part of hers). It was a promise you made to each other the year you both turned seven during an afternoon playdate at her house.  
  
“Shhh,” Quinn shushed as she bounced her baby doll up and down in her arms. “Go see your Auntie Tana,” she cooed, hoisting the doll into your arms.  
  
“Take her back,” you demanded. “She’s way too much trouble.”  
  
“She is not,” Quinn cried, sticking out her tongue at you. “Don’t you want to be a mom one day?”  
  
“Maybe someday, but first I want to get married and then my husband and I are going to travel all around the world to exotic places like Hawaii.”  
  
“Of course you’re going to get married first, that’s the way it has to happen,” she replied innocently. The fact that it had to happen that way turned out to be one of the few things Quinn was actually wrong about.  
  
“I’m going to have a big, fancy wedding on the beach and you’re going to be my maid of honor.”  
  
“Yay!” Quinn squealed with excitement. “You’re going to be my maid of honor too, but I’m going to get married at our church. And after I get married, my husband and I are going to dance around the ballroom until our feet get sore.” She grabbed your hands and spun you around a few times to demonstrate.  
  
“And then you’re going to have a baby?” You asked once she was done twirling you around.  
  
“Uh huh,” she nodded, stuffing a pillow up under her dress and rubbing her mock belly. “She’s kicking, do you want to feel?”  
  
You rolled your eyes, obviously the pillow wasn’t kicking. But then Quinn got that sad look in her eyes that always came around when you refused to indulge her imagination, so you put your hand on top of the pillow and smiled. “She has really strong legs!”  
  
Quinn grinned because you played along, “And then when I have my baby you can come to the hospital before everyone else and hold her first so we can tell her that you were the very first person she ever met!”  
  
You couldn’t quite put your finger on why that sounded so special, but it did so you nodded happily and agreed. “Okay!”  
  
She clapped her hands excitedly. “Pinky promise?” she asked, holding her pink finger up and extending it towards you.  
  
“Pink promise,” you confirmed, hooking your pinky around hers.  
  
Now, it is nine years down the road and there is a swell in Quinn’s abdomen and every time you see it, you can’t help but remember the pinky promise you made when you were seven. Sometimes she catches your eye when you glance at her belly and you wonder if she remembers all the promises you made too. You quickly push those thoughts from your mind because your heart hurts too much when you think them and you remember how much you miss your best friend. Hating her is easier.  
  
The last words you say to her are terrible and out of spite and you feel stupid even As you’re saying them because you’re fighting over a boy that you’re just having fun with and a boy who you know she doesn’t really love. Your friendship of eleven years lies in ruins on the floor in front of her locker and neither of you know how to begin putting it back together again.  
  
You quickly lose count of the number of times you almost pick up the phone to call her and tell her about your day. You walk down the halls and feel like part of you is missing because she’s not by your side like she has always been. But you’re both angry and hurt, and you’re both too damn stubborn to admit it, so you go on pretending that you don’t care. She moves in with Brittany after Rachel Berry tells Finn that Puck is the baby’s father and he kicks her out of his house. Sometimes Brittany tells you stuff about Quinn, but you mostly block it out.  
  
“She let me feel the baby kick last night and it was so weird. Her stomach was moving all around like in that movie Alien.”  
  
“Whatever, nobody cares about that slut and her stupid baby,” you hiss and Brittany looks wounded.  
  
It’s been almost five months to the day since you’ve spoken to each other when your phone vibrates on your nightstand. You’re lying in bed in your sweats at five in the afternoon, pouting, because Puck was supposed to come over so you could fool around, but he canceled on you at the last minute with some stupid excuse about his Fight Club. At first you ignore the text. You’re bitchy and don’t feel like dealing with anyone, but it buzzes again and you pick it up out of sheer boredom. Quinn Fabray’s name is displayed twice at the top of your message inbox and you inwardly gloat for a minute, surprised that she was the first to break the silence. You click on her first text.  
  
“I’m alone at Britt’s. My water broke. I need you.” As you read, your heart jumps into your throat and you don’t even bother to look at her second text.  
  
“I’m coming.” You text her back as you fly out of bed and grab your keys and purse from your desk chair.  
  
You run three stop signs on the way to Brittany’s house and drive fifteen over the speed limit. The whole time you’re driving, you pray that a cop won’t pull you over while simultaneously trying to decide on the best way possible to explain the situation to one if you do get stopped. You pull into Brittany’s driveway and jump out of the car without even bothering to take your keys out of the ignition.  
  
“Quinn?” You call, stepping through the front door to the Pierce’s house.  
  
“I’m upstairs,” she calls back and there is a hint of pain in her voice.  
  
You take the stairs two at a time and find her standing in Brittany’s bedroom clutching her belly, amniotic fluid still trickling down her legs. “Shit, Q,” you gasp, walking closer to her as you try to assess the situation. “You’re a mess.” She looks pitiful, and very much like a girl who has lost all her magic.  
  
“I know,” she replies in a half laugh, half cry. “My water broke over there,” she points to a wet spot on the carpet that she had covered with a towel. “I tried to clean it up but it just kept coming out and then I started having contractions and I didn’t know what else to do so I texted you.” Her words come out fast and jumbled and you know from years of being her friend that she is about to lose it. “I was so afraid you wouldn’t come.”  
  
Hating your best friend when she’s in labor, scared, and hurting proves too difficult even for you, so you wrap your arms around her in a tight hug. “Well, I’m here now.”  
  
“I know. I’m really sorry, San,” she whispers into your shoulder.  
  
“Me too,” you reply before releasing her from your hug. “Let’s not worry about all that now. We’re got bigger problems to deal with. What do you need me to do?”  
  
“I need dry clothes,” she says, looking down at her wet pajama shorts. “They’re in that drawer.”  
  
You rush to the drawer and toss her the first thing you find. “Here, now what?”  
  
“Call my OB and let her know I’m in labor. Her number’s in my phone.”  
  
You face the wall and dial so Quinn can change in privacy.  
  
“The nurse wants to know how far apart your contractions are.”  
  
“I don’t know,” she says, sounding annoyed. “I haven’t been timing them.”  
  
“They’re ten minutes apart,” you hiss into the phone because the nurse has a bad attitude. “Yes, her water broke. Now it’s just kind of leaking.” You listen for a minute, “Okay, we’ll do that.”  
  
“What did she say?” Quinn asks, lowering herself down to sit on the edge of her bed. She’s completely out of breath from changing.  
  
“They said you need to wait until your contractions got closer together. Like five to seven minutes apart.”  
  
“What?” Quinn’s face looks very much like she might start crying.  
  
“It’s going to be alright,” you promise, sitting down beside her on the bed. “We’ll go now. The hospital is about a thirty five minute drive if I obey the speed limit and what that nurse doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”  
  
“Okay,” she nods and draws in a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself.  
  
“Do you have a bag for the hospital?”  
  
“Over there,” Quinn points to her cheerleading duffel bag in the corner. The sight of it makes your heart clench, she’s sixteen and should be using her bag to pack for Nationals, not to take with her to the hospital to deliver her baby.  
  
“Need anything else?” You ask, tossing her bag over your shoulder. She shakes her head, so you offer her your hand and help her stand. “Let’s go then.”  
  
You’re halfway down the stairs when her grip on your hand tightens and she pauses, bracing herself against the wall. “Contraction,” she hisses through clenched teeth.  
  
You check the time and then stand helplessly beside her while she squeezes your hand and you wish desperately that you’d gone to those childbirth classes with her like she’d asked you to before you both started fighting. Her grip loosens on your hand and she nods at you, so you continue your walk to the car.  
  
“Wait,” she says when you open the door and try to help her into the passenger seat. “We forgot a towel.”  
  
“So?” You ask. She looks down and you remember the slow trickle of fluid running down her legs. You calculate in your head how much it will cost to get your car upholstery cleaned. “Screw it,” you say, helping her climb in. “Consider it a baby shower present.”  
  
You haven’t been driving very long before Quinn shifts uncomfortably and clutches at the armrest. “I am going to murder Noah Puckerman,” she announces in the middle of her contraction.  
  
“I’ll help,” you say and she laughs a little, so you know the worst is over. “Did you call him?” You broach the subject carefully.  
  
“No,” she answers quietly.  
  
“Do you want me to?” You ask, even though you know he’s at Fight Club and he probably won’t answer.  
  
“Not yet,” she replies. “This is hard enough as it is. I just want to get through this first,” she says, running her hand over the top of her belly.  
  
You get stuck in horrible traffic when you’re about fifteen minutes away from the hospital and utter every curse word you know and then make up a few for good measure. Quinn has quickly gone from uncomfortable to miserable and you can’t think of anything you wouldn’t give to make it all stop for her as you watch her writhe in pain.  
  
“Q, you have to breathe,” you remind her gently, easing the car into park so you can focus all of your attention on her.  
  
“Damn it,” she breathes, unbuckling her seat belt and turning her body so that her face is leaning into the seat. “It hurts to sit.”  
  
You reach over and rub the small of her back. “I know,” you say, even though you don’t. How could you possibly know what she was going through? “You’re doing such a good job though.”  
  
“This feels really fast, San,” she cries suddenly and you wish you would have paid more attention during health class instead of passing notes to Mike Chang. You also wish you would have run back inside Brittany’s house to grab a towel.  
  
“It’ll be okay,” you say, taking her hand and running your thumb over the back of it. “We’ll be there soon.”  
  
You make it to the hospital, just the two of you, despite Quinn’s numerous claims that it felt like the kid’s head was right between her knees. You don’t bother to park, instead opting to just pull up right outside the hospital entrance.  
  
“Park this,” you demand, tossing your valet key at the first guy you see. “My friend is having her baby.”  
  
A nurse meets you both at the door and attempts to seat Quinn in a wheelchair, but Quinn growls and tightens her grip on your arm. “I’m not sitting.”  
  
“It hurts,” you explain to the nurse when she looks at you and raises her eyebrow.  
  
You resist the urge to ask the nurse at the front desk if she wants your friend to give birth in the hallway when she hands you a stack of paperwork to fill out before checking Quinn in.  
  
“Is it supposed to hurt so badly this early?” Quinn asks once she’s finally settled into a bed and checked out by a nurse.  
  
“Everyone’s different, sweetie,” she replies. “You’re only about three and a half centimeters dilated but your baby is sitting very low in your pelvis. That’s probably what’s making you so uncomfortable.”  
  
“Can’t you move her?” Quinn asks, completely serious.  
  
“I’m afraid not. She’s right where she needs to be.”  
  
Quinn glares at the nurse and then throws her head back into her pillow and, for a minute, you think she might actually kill the nurse.  
  
“Three and a half centimeters, that’s good right? You’re like, half way there,” you say encouragingly from your seat beside her bed.  
  
“I have to get to ten,” she groans and again you find yourself wishing you’d paid more attention during health class.

* * *

 

Quinn labors all night long and well into the morning and it’s brutal for the both of you. You spend hours walking the halls with her, stopping every few minutes to help her breathe through another contraction. Then when she decides that walking hurts more than lying down, you sit by her bedside, holding her hand and rubbing her back and doing everything you can to keep her calm. You bring her ice chips when she asks for them and sneak her a banana from the vending machine because labor is hard work and you think it’s cruel to starve her on top of everything else.  
  
During a particularly hard contraction that leaves Quinn crying like you’ve never seen her cry before, you wish someone else was here with you. Seeing you best friend in so much pain is proving to be more than you can handle.  
  
You call Puck twenty hours into Quinn’s labor, when the nurse announces that she’s nine centimeters dilated and that the baby will be coming soon. You make the call standing next to Quinn’s bed because when you try to step out of the room, she grabs your hand and begs you to stay.  
  
“‘Sup, babe?” His voice comes through the phone. “You miss me last night?”  
  
“Ugh,” you groan. “Shut up, Puck. I was just calling to tell you that I’m at the hospital with Quinn. She’s in labor and the baby will be coming soon, so you should probably get your ass over here.”  
  
He’s yelling. “What do you mean Quinn’s in labor? She didn’t call me.”  
  
“I know,” you reply coolly. “She called me instead.”  
  
“Shit, I’m coming. Tell her to keep her legs together.” He curses before he hangs up the phone.  
  
Puck comes stumbling into Quinn’s hospital room half an hour later, right in the middle of her most intense contraction yet. “Get out of here!” Quinn screams. “And I am never sleeping with you again.”  
  
“For the record,” you say, leading him to the door and promising to come get him from the waiting room as soon as the baby is born. “Neither am I.”

* * *

“Alright, Quinn, this is it.” Her doctor announces from the end of the bed. “The next time you have a contraction, I want you to push, okay?”  
  
“This is it, Q,” you whisper into her ear, “game time.  
  
She shakes her head and looks at you desperately, tears welling in her eyes. “I can’t do this.”  
  
“Yes, you can,” you assure her, pushing a few sweaty hairs off of the back of her neck.  
  
She goes to protest again, but her body takes over and she grabs your hand and she pushes. Standing by her bed, holding her hand and cheering her on, is admittedly not what you had in mind all those years ago when you promised to come to the hospital when she had her babies one day, but in this moment there is nowhere else in the world you’d rather be than right by her side.  
  
With every push Quinn grows wearier until you remind her how strong she is and tell her how proud she’s making you, and she digs deeper within herself and pushes as hard as she can.  
  
Just when you start to think that Quinn has given it all that she can, a baby’s cries fill the room. “It’s a girl!” The doctor announces, holding up the baby up for you both to see. Her arms are flailing and she’s screaming and you honestly think she looks downright pissed to have been taken from her warm, dark home. She’s a mess, covered in blood and other fluids you’d rather not think about, but she’s the most beautiful mess you’ve ever seen.  
  
“Look what you did, Quinn,” you say, pressing your forehead to the side of her head.  
  
“She’s perfect,” she says, staring in disbelief as the doctor places the baby on her chest. “Hi,” she whispers, wrapping her arms protectively around the baby and cupping her head in her hand. “I’m your mommy.” She’s crying when she says it, but her face is one of pure joy. You look at her as she gazes proudly at her daughter and she no longer looks like a girl who has lost all her magic.  
  
“She’s beautiful, Q,” you say, and you realize that you’re crying too. You lean over and kiss the top of your best friend’s head. “I’m so fucking proud of you,” you whisper into her hair.  
  
Quinn counts all of her daughter’s fingers and toes and then reluctantly hands her over to the nurse so that she can clean her up. You go out to the waiting room long enough to retrieve Puck, who you find pacing the floor like a caged animal.  
  
“She’s here,” you announce happily. You’re feeling too exhilarated to be angry with him at the moment. “She’s healthy and gorgeous and despite your problems, you two make damn pretty babies together.”  
  
He laughs and wraps his arms around you in a hug, “Thanks, Santana.”  
  
“Come on,” you say, grabbing him by the hand and dragging him down the hall. “Let’s go meet your daughter.”  
  
When you return, Quinn is sitting up in bed rocking the little pink bundle in her arms. She greets you both with a smile.  
  
“Hey,” Puck says, sitting on one side of Quinn’s hospital bed and tucking some of her hair behind her ear.  
  
“Hi,” she whispers. “I’m sorry I said I was going to murder you.”  
  
“You didn’t say that,” he replies, raising his eyebrow.  
  
“Oh yes she did,” you chime in with a sly grin, “Numerous times.”  
  
Puck scoffs and chooses to ignore you, “So, you gonna let me hold her or what?”  
  
“Of course,” Quinn smiles, “but Santana goes first.” She carefully hands you the baby and you’re surprised by how nicely she fits right into the crook of your arm. “There, now one day you can tell her you’re the first person she ever met,” she says with a wink.  
  
You wink and smile back, because you know she remembers the pinky promise you made so many years before.

 


End file.
